Your Worst Nightmare, Sherlock Holmes
by Alice Everett
Summary: One-shot; Sherlock meets his new enemy. Are they worse than Moriarty?


The smell of fresh crumpets sneaked under the door, reaching the tips of Sherlock's observant nose. He stood in front of the door; 181 Malice Avenue. A proud metal lion knocker stared him down, as if he was questioning his strength, his character. Sherlock stared back, thinking that the lion had no right to question him so. He had been pretending to be dead for nearly three years now, which had challenges on it's own, and now he was to meet with his next enemy, the next villain.

_Rap, rap, rap_. He banged the knocker, and the sound rang through the air. Sherlock didn't even blink.

"It's open!" a voice called from inside. Sherlock hesitated. The voice was that of a young lady, but then again, that would explain the invitation to tea-time, written in calligraphy, "bring your brain and your gun if you feel like it, please, thank you".

He swung open the door casually, stepped in, wiped his feet on the mat, and took off his coat. A figure emerged from the kitchen; a teenage girl, tall, pale complexion with chestnut colored hair and deep blue eyes. She was wearing a pale blue sweater and white blouse, with black dress pants. A matching blue headband was pushed into her hair.

"Sherlock Holmes," she beamed. Sherlock observed her extended hand, and shook it cooly. "Let me take your coat. Please, sit down. Tea is boiling and the crumpets are fresh from the oven!" The girl hung up the coat in the coat closet and wrapped the scarf around the neck of the hanger. "What nice material this scarf is!" she remarked, while Sherlock found a seat. He was becoming impatient.

According to this apartment, this girl was eighty-seven, had two dead cats named Frank and Sylvie, her husband left her when she was sixty-five, and their two daughters were both doctors, even though they shared a deep, passionate hate for each other.

According to the girl's sweater, she was in her early twenties and wore too much mascara, only when she went out on Fridays, but that was hardly ever, since her boyfriend had dumped her three months ago and she hadn't had a date since.

According to the girl's pants, she was a business woman who lived in New York, had never been married and seldom traveled, not to mention was incredibly invested in her job and had no pets.

According to her headband, she was ten and lived in Bath.

"Do you take milk and sugar?"

"Neither, thanks," Sherlock told the girl. It was the first time he had spoken since he had entered the apartment, and even he could hear how stiff he sounded.

"Here you go." The girl handed him his tea and went around to the other side of the coffee table, sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock, and made herself a cuppa as well.

"I didn't catch your name," Sherlock pressed, wishing his deductions wouldn't fail him.

"Probably because I didn't say it!" the girl grinned, her eyes full of warmth, yet with a glint of mischievousness. "Hera."

"Pleased to meet you, Hera. Aren't you a bit young to be keeping a place all by yourself?" Hera smiled; she knew what Sherlock was doing, and she him to know.

"Fourteen isn't too young. Actually, many people say I'm quite the young lady. I'm very proper, you know," Hera teased, taking a sip of tea, but keeping her eyes trained on Sherlock. "Your deductions won't work on me. I'm not careless enough to wear my own clothing or meet you in my own house. I'm just borrowing this." She waved around the room, then gestured to her clothes. "See, I hate for people to make judgements before they fully understand you. So listen, and deduce me by what I say, Sherlock, not by what I wear or where I live." She took another sip of tea. "You might find it a refreshing exercise."

"So, you're my next worst enemy."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. We can still be friends. But only on weekends and holidays."

"You consider yourself worse than Moriarty?" It was phrased as a question but Sherlock said it as a statement.

"Oh, Moriarty!" Hera cried, her face a mixture of pain and playfulness. "He was so fun. I miss him, such a shame he shot himself in the face. Of course, that was on _your_ account, but I'll forgive you, because I _do_ want us to be friends."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, baffled, tired, frustrated. Hera looked at him and a wide smile spread across her face.

"Your worst nightmare, Sherlock Holmes. Now, drink up, your tea is getting cold."

**One-shot of future enemy for Sherlock...I'm wondering who they will bring in to replace Moriarty. I liked the idea of the opposite of Moriarty; a young girl who is secretive but strangely friendly. I like my villain. She's fun. :)**


End file.
